


her locks wind round his heart

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hair Kink, Pre-Series, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 13:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14082048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: Her patient was attracted to her hair. Peculiar, but not unheard of, conclusions proceeded through her mind as she considered this strange transference. It looked like a too obvious of a pattern to be revealed by a man like Hannibal, but she had learned that the most surprising things about her patient were usually the most normal ones. All of a sudden, she found herself presented with a new tool of opportunity: a key of her hair to unlock a door in his mind.





	her locks wind round his heart

Bedelia had noticed it at once. The way his eyes appeared to slide to the side of her face at times, even though he liked to maintain eye contact during their talk. Sudden, swift glances, almost imperceptible, but they were there.

She had not given it much thought at first. Dissecting each minuscule speck of his behaviour became second nature to her and required knowing which ones of these pieces were relevant to solving the puzzle of her patient. And that one did not appear to be anything more than a quirk of sorts. _At first._

But soon further peculiarities caught her eye. His gaze grew darker each time a ray of sun slipped past the drapes and flitted across her hair, emphasising its golden radiance. Like a cat attracted to shiny objects, the gleam of her hair held his attention in a surprising fashion. The sun shined low during the hour of their therapy and the light seeped abundantly through the window, reflecting on the long tresses repeatedly. For the first time, Bedelia wondered if he had chosen this afternoon hour on purpose. It seemed like a reach, but she knew well that nothing was coincidental when it came to Hannibal Lecter.

No theory should be left unproven, Bedelia decided during the next session, still unsure what to make of his glances. Only half listening to his words at present, she slowly lifted her hand and casually tossed the lock over her shoulder. Hannibal did not stutter, the story of his newly planned herb garden flowing smoothly from his lips, and his face remained impassive, but his eyes widened at once, the inky irises sparkling excitedly. Bedelia kept her composure intact as well, only briefly pressing her lips together in a silent victory.

Her patient was attracted to her hair. Peculiar, but not unheard of, conclusions proceeded through her mind as she considered this strange transference. It looked like a too obvious of a pattern to be revealed by a man like Hannibal, but she had learned that the most surprising things about her patient were usually the most _normal_ ones. All of a sudden, she found herself presented with a new tool of opportunity: a key of her hair to unlock a door in his mind.

 

The following week, she sat in front of her mirror, arranging her hair, but with more attention than usual. The fingers slowly separated the strands as the hot curler wrapped around them with caution. Another curl appeared under the pressure of the heat and Bedelia examined it closely, ensuring it was tight enough, but not too springy. The same attention was given to every twist of her hair and swirls took shape slowly, each of them matching the other perfectly. Finally, when the last one was in place, Bedelia set the curler and brushes aside, appraising the result. The golden strands streamed in a lustrous way, ending with playful curls, resting gently over her back and shoulders. She smiled at her own reflection; she did not remember the last time she put that extra of an effort into her coiffure, but decided it was all for a right purpose.

When she opened the door that afternoon, the cascade of her hair at ready, Hannibal looked stunned, his eyes darkened immediately, unprepared for the more sublime than usual sight, just as Bedelia anticipated.

“Hello, Hannibal,” she welcomed him, enjoying his glare which was an award in itself for her undertaking.

“Good afternoon, Doctor,” Hannibal responded, and she could see further words forming on his lips, but he did not utter them.

“Please come in,” she allowed herself a ghost of a smile as she led him to her office, pleased with what she perceived as progress. Behind her, the quiet steps of her patient were paired with a burning stare she felt on her back. When they entered the room, he was met with another subtle change; the drapes her fully opened, enveloping Bedelia’s chair, and her, in a bright frame of light.

Hannibal took his usual spot, legs crossed, hands poised on his lap, a vision of composure, but his eyes seemed restless, following each speck of light reflecting on her locks. Yet the session ensued as normal and the conversation did not move past the shallows of the routine. But Bedelia did not consider this a failure, progression takes time. And as much she was trying to ignore it, his longing gaze became distinctly _pleasurable_.

 

She prepared to present the same immaculate hair during their next week’s session. Sitting down at her vanity, a brush in her hand, she began to pull the strands smooth. The brush slid easily through the shiny streaks and it looked as if she was spinning gold. Bedelia was always proud of her hair. While other women past certain age cut it shorter for practical or social reasons, she nurtured her long locks with care, enjoying the way it adorned her face. However, she did not particularly enjoy other people touching it, apart from her monthly visits to her carefully selected stylist, who she valued as much for his expertise as for his quiet demeanour.

But now, as her brush moved evenly through its length, she found herself thinking about her patient’s _interest_ and what he would do, given a chance to act upon it. She imagined his long fingers burying in the tresses, gently running through the silky strands, making it flow like water of a summer spring. The brush paused as her thoughts ventured on; she could see him tracing her swirls and wrapping them around his fingers. The skin on her head hummed pleasantly and she could almost feel it, agile digits entwined in her hair and pulling ever so slowly. A sudden shudder of pleasure raced down her skin and she set the brush down, more forcefully than intended, trying to shake off the strange notions swirling in her mind.

Still, she finished arranging her hair with the same attention as before. There was knowledge to be gained after all, she met her determined stare in the mirror, pushing all other thoughts away with more tenacity.

While Hannibal’s thoughts remained covert, Bedelia arrived at conclusions of her own. There must have been a blonde-haired woman in his past, one that left a lasting impact on him, an uneasy feat, considering how unimpressionable Hannibal was. She knew it was not his aunt, the first family member he spoke off, the unrequited love of a teenage boy, so plain to see, even if he hadn’t admitted it himself. His mother perhaps or…

“My sister loved the summer,” Hannibal started unexpectedly as Bedelia was finishing an annotation on her pad. The slightly open window invited the warm breeze, rousing the streaks of Bedelia’s curls and stirring Hannibal’s memories.

_Misha_ , she put down the pen, her eyes lifted at once and focused on her patient, his gaze turning hazy and wistful. He had mentioned her before; Bedelia knew she was killed, but the details remained unclear as Hannibal seemed reluctant to unlatch this part of his past. Which is why she was listening intently now, giving him a small nod of encouragement, trying not to let her immediate interest show.

“She used to run around the grounds all day, despite my mother’s worries,” he continued, and a sad smile pulled at his lips as his mind slipped farther into the former life, “It was my duty to guard her and make sure she didn’t venture too far, not an easy task. She was quite rebellious, even at such early age.” His voice was now brimming with adoration for the lost sister.

Bedelia could see it clearly: a young boy following his sister, trying to claim authority of the older sibling, but letting his affection take over every time. She felt a smile forming on her lips but supressed it at once; it would be quite unprofessional. Still, this image of Hannibal not only roused her mind, but, unexpectedly, warmed her heart as well.

“But she did like when I combed her hair at the end of the day. She would sit quietly then, allowing me to slowly entangle all the twists,” he paused while collecting his fractured thoughts, “She took after our mother, her hair was bright blonde and long.”

A swift stream of cold filled Bedelia’s veins and the fire of her curiosity was forcefully put out, leaving nothing but smoke. The question was answered, another bit of the puzzle shifting into place, but Bedelia did not feel satisfied. The knowledge she craved left her somehow unfulfilled.

“Her lost is still raw in your mind,” she commented, her voice cool, mirroring the chilly rush spilling beneath her skin.

“At times,” Hannibal admitted, his eyes hesitantly rising to meet hers in search of understanding or perhaps something more, she could not tell as she found herself detaching further.

It would be natural for him to look for a substitute for his sister. The cold within her turned to ice.

“Our time is up,” she flicked her wrist without looking at her watch and got up swiftly to fetch the wine. She did not ask him which one he preferred.

 

There was no more need for _special incentive_. Bedelia looked at the implements laid out on the vanity, the black surface of the brushes shining invitingly, the curler waiting soundlessly to be whisk back to life, but she was unwilling to put them to use. Her unforeseen irritation was kept at bay as she did not allow herself to consider its roots.

She finally set about brushing her hair, a practised ritual, but her movements were brisker now, wishing to complete the task as soon as possible. The brush was pushed to the side as Bedelia looked at her reflection, unsure of the next stage. Her hand moved to the side drawer and she pulled it open with swift resolve. Among medleys of lipsticks and shades, she found a set of hair sticks, long gold stems twisting into a laurel at the top, tucked away carelessly in the very back. Bedelia had purchased them a long time ago on a whim, when she thought about wearing her hair up, but had never used it. She liked her hair loose. But not today. She gathered the blonde locks into a ponytail, winded them into a twist, and wrapped it around tightly. Tucking the ends in, she secured the bun with one of the sticks.

She gave the arrangement an uncaring glance in the mirror; she did not like it. But at least she would not be the only one.

 

Hannibal’s dismay was almost tangible. Bedelia could see the motions in his head, thoughts rushing and assessing, trying to determine the reason behind this unexpected change. He tried to unravel her as much as she wanted to solve him. A muscle twitched in his jaw, the tiniest of mannerism, but one that suggested a turmoil within him, slopping over the surface of his veil. A distant pang of guilt reverberated in Bedelia’s head; sudden changes to the routine could be damaging to the patient and the success of a therapy. _But was this still therapy?_ Bedelia silenced the persistent voice at once. It sounded like it belonged to a stranger, a manifestation of her former, logical self.

His gaze dropped as he searched to assign the blame, perhaps wondering what he had done to cause it. He did _nothing_ , Bedelia knew this well, but it did not ease her mind or cease her lasting displeasure. Her decisions were rarely _rational_ when it came to Hannibal Lecter.

“How was your week, Hannibal?” she asked, almost hesitantly, somehow unwilling to start the session.

“It was _fine_ ,” the sad stress put on the last syllable suggested the condition had abruptly changed.

The hour passed lethargically, with both of them following the assigned script. The questions and answers felt like lines read from the cue cards. It was a play neither of them enjoyed performing or seeing.

Now they left their roles in a much-needed intermission and were standing by the window, nursing their Pinot Noir in a heavy silence. There was no textbook to guide them here.

“A new hairstyle, Doctor?” Hannibal asked tentatively from the brim of his glass.

“I am trying something,” she responded curtly, taking a sip of her wine. It left a bitter tingle on her tongue, matching the feeling of discontent gnawing at her mind.

Silence descended between them anew, this time charged with the unspoken words dithering on Hannibal’s lips.

Bedelia felt the pressure of the hour weighting on her mind and her head in turn. A headache announced itself with a low thumping in her temples and her hair felt as if it were pulling at her skull. The bun was uncomfortable, and she regretted her rushed styling decision. Absentmindedly, her hand reached out to try to adjust the twist in search of relief. Her fingers pulled at a random strand and before she realized it, the stem holding her hair together became loose and started to slip away.

This is the last thing she needed, Bedelia scowled as her hand made a frantic attempt to reach the stick before it felt. But her hand remained suspended half way as another hand swiftly caught the golded tip.

A muted gasp escaped Bedelia’s lips as she turned her head, making her twist come apart further, but Hannibal’s grip did not falter. Entranced, she watched as his other hand moved to gather the loose strands before sliding the stem back in its place and securing it afresh.

“Thank you,” she muttered, and Hannibal nodded his head.

The crisis had been averted, but his fingers remained half buried in her hair. Bedelia could discern their warmth and sensed a gentle graze of fingertips on her locks. This was an unbefitting behaviour, but she could not bring herself to speak. It was like a spell conjured from the unfathomable parts of her mind and she did not want to break it. With a final, bolder stroke of his fingers, his hand dropped, and he resumed drinking his wine as thought nothing had passed.

“You must have had a lot of practice arranging your sister’s hair,” the unnamed resentment surfaced once more and her unexpectedly derailed train of thoughts was unable to stop the words from surging forward.

Hannibal looked at her in wonder and she thought she saw a faint spark of understanding igniting in his eyes.

“No, I did not,” he responded simply, “It did not remind me of my sister.” There was a quiet firmness in his glare, matching his words.

Bedelia did not comment and emptied her glass in one mouthful, suddenly avoiding his eyes. The throbbing in her head was gone, replaced by a rapid heartbeat. They finished the wine without further words.

The brush of his fingers seemed to linger, imprinted on her hair, and burning raw on her skin.

 

Now the pins had been put back in the drawer as Bedelia styled her hair long anew. The curls seemed to leap to her every touch as if excited to be loose once more. Or looking forward to the forthcoming attention. Bedelia tried to dismiss these impressions but finished the task at hand with as much attentiveness as before. Somehow her hair shined brighter than ever.

Hannibal’s eyes lighted up when she opened the door that evening, the soft waves of her hair swept to one side, resting gracefully over her shoulder. But he said nothing as he followed her inside.

The session proceeds uneventfully, but the heavy tension of the previous week evaporated without a trace. There was a new pull between them now, a fizzing current charging the air. Or maybe it was merely in Bedelia’s mind. No matter, she decided, it was very _pleasant_.

“Red or white?” Bedelia asked at the end of their hour, looking at him with faint fondness.

“I think white today,” Hannibal responded, an endearment of his own infusing his stare.

Bedelia left her seat and was about to leave the room, but Hannibal spoke again, making her pause.

“This hairstyle suits you best, Doctor Du Maurier,” he uttered shyly, and she knew the words had been brewing on his tongue for weeks. His voice sounded so unusually boyish and she wondered if she would see a blush on his cheeks if she turned and looked at him now.

But she did not turn, not wanting to reveal the colour rising under her own skin. She said nothing, a tender smile forming on her lips. The gentle fizz returned to the roots of her hair and trickled down her spine in a wordless anticipation.

As she remembered the sensation of his fingers in her hair, she knew it was the thrill of things to come.

**Author's Note:**

> For a tumblr hair kink prompt. I've written so many of these already so this is something different, very early days of the therapy, their hair kink's origin story of sorts. I hope it's sexy enough, even without actual sexy times. The way I see it everything is obscenely sensuous with these two.


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